Rules of Counterpoint
by htebazytook
Summary: Frodo/Sam slash. This pairing was my first OTP, and it's high time I wrote for them. Musically infused Shire fluff. Wherein Frodo is the Paris Conservatoire and Sam is Debussy.


**Title: ** Rules of Counterpoint

**Author: ** htebazytook

**Rating: ** PG-13

**Disclaimer: ** --

**Pairing: ** Frodo/Sam

**Time Frame: ** Pre-Quest

**Author's Notes: ** This pairing was my first OTP, and it's high time I wrote for them. Musically infused Shire fluff. Wherein Frodo is the Paris Conservatoire and Sam is Debussy.

Spring is fast approaching, and that means Frodo has to start thinking about lesson plans. It seems ridiculous to call them that when he constructs them more or less on a whim and builds them not so much to facilitate progress on his student's behalf as to keep himself engaged. Something musical this time, perhaps—it's been ages since Frodo sat down at the piano for more than a few listless minutes or at his uncle's request. Frodo would feel guilty about his lack of organization when it came to teaching, but he'd had _Bilbo_ for a tutor for most of his life and clearly wasn't to blame.

And in any case, Sam seems to enjoy their lessons no matter how obscure the subject, not matter how obviously arbitrary it is to Sam's life, and to be honest most of what Frodo had taught in recent years had been indulgent, silly things that didn't serve much of a purpose in his own life, either. The simple fact was that Frodo had run out of things to teach Sam. There were only so many times one could read the classics aloud without beginning to resent them, really.

Sam had been eager and wide-eyed from, well, _birth_, and his voracity for knowledge apparently knew no end. He wouldn't mind _what_ Frodo taught him, no matter how trivial, as long as he had something new to learn. Frodo really oughtn't feel guilty or lazy or any of those things—he had exhausted all the other subject matter. Honestly.

Well, at least all of the _interesting_ subject matter . . .

Sam wouldn't mind.

-----

Frodo dusts off the piano and sneezes, scrounges around for sheet music and tries to stop thinking in circles. _This is what happens when you leave me to my own devices, Bilbo. What was so important in 'Bree' anyway?_

The melting snow must've made the path up to Bag End particularly muddy because when Sam arrives that afternoon he spends an inordinate amount of time trying to get it off his feet at the doorstep—so much time, in fact, that Frodo doesn't actually notice he's there until he walks down the hall to tidy up the parlor into some semblance of order before Sam can arrive and judge his halfhearted housekeeping. It's the angry muttering and the brisk gust of wind that gets his attention.

"Sam. Er. Hello. _How_ long have you been there, exactly?"

"Oh, don't you worry, Mr. Frodo, I don't intend on muddying up the place . . ."

"Please, Sam. I don't mind. It's not like I'll have to clea—um. Yes, well." Frodo doesn't understand why he has so much trouble remembering Sam _works_ for them.

Luckily Sam isn't paying attention—either that or he's politely pretending not to pay attention, which is worse. "There, all tidied up, now, sir. Sorry about that."

A 'sir' already? Why does Frodo always manage to fail with so very much haste whenever Sam is involved? He sighs. "Please don't worry about it, Sam. Did you have tea already?"

Sam finally looks at him, and Frodo imagines he's shot up another inch in the short collection of snowy weeks he'd been absent from the hole. His hair is longer, certainly. Rarely golden tinge to it that jumps out when the sun is placed just so in the sky, when Sam's eyes gleam to match it. Frodo wonders if he'll ever stop looking like an overeager child. He's, what, almost twenty now?

"Well, sir, I wouldn't want to trouble you, of course . . ."

Frodo waves it away. "You're going to sit down for a few consecutive minutes and drink tea and just be generally calm," Frodo says. Sam starts to protest again—"_I_ would like some tea, so you can either join me or stand around and watch me drink it. Bilbo's not here, Sam. Come along and relax."

Sam relents, even lets Frodo scurry around and do all the busywork, but Sam's interpretation of relaxation is so tense and watchful that it's making _Frodo_ nervous. Honestly, Frodo has made tea by himself _before_—well, all right, the last time he'd burnt himself and the tea and demolished one of several collections of irreplaceable china, but that had been _months_ ago, and in any case Sam hadn't known about it. Probably.

Sam's been stifling smiles unsuccessfully since he walked through the door. Frodo hands him a teacup and smiles back in the hopes of getting him to _actually_ relax. "All right, Sam?" Frodo asks, sitting down across from him. Tea at the kitchen table isn't very proper, but it's easier and Frodo is lazy and Sam would probably have a heart attack if Frodo made him sit on an expensive, unfortunately patterned 'antique' in the parlor.

Sam exhales. "It's just . . . good to see you again, Mr. Frodo."

Frodo tilts his head, sips his drink for something to do. "It hasn't been that long." Even though it's felt like it. Frodo doesn't exactly entertain all that much, and he's glad of the company.

"I know that," Sam says, stirring in sugar and going about the whole tea affair with more decorum than Frodo ever has, except when under the scrutiny of his Brandybuck relatives.

"So," Frodo says, clearing his throat. "I was hoping you might be interested in a different approach this year. How does music strike you?"

Sam's eyes light up. "You mean like playing the piano? Sir?"

Frodo nods. "Yes. Along with counterpoint and perhaps some singing too, although I'll admit I'm not the most proficient when it comes to the latter. Still, though, I think you'd enjoy it. I mean, your sisters probably play, don't they?" He can remember his older cousins practicing scales, remembers getting their attention by smashing down on the keys, trying to play himself when he was alone and failing miserably.

"Um. Begging your pardon, Mr. Frodo, but yours is the only piano I know of on the Hill. I'd be honored to learn even a little bit, though, sir. If you have the time, of course, that is, I'm not keen on taking time out of your busy schedule just to—"

"Oh don't be ridiculous. It's always a pleasure and never any trouble, Sam. You should know that by now." _Not to mention how desperately bored I am._

-----

By the time they reconvene in the parlor at the piano Frodo feels he's finally got his head on straight and remembered how to interact with other people, feels confident that no more oblivious or insensitive comments will make it past his lips.

Frodo's been lecturing (blathering) about the origins of music for a while now, giving a brief little tour of its history in order to provide some kind of context for why composers write what they write. But Sam has been biting his tongue for a good fifteen minutes, bursting with the desire to say something.

Frodo stops talking, smiles. "Yes, Sam?"

"I just. What about the Elves, sir?"

Frodo laughs. "Always with you and the Elves. But honestly, you make a good point. What we consider to be ancient music is sacred to them even today. They live for so very long that only slight variations in their compositions and poetry and performance practice ever really take place. So if you went to Rivendell, for example, you wouldn't hear the strict counterpoint we are used to hearing in a formal setting, and you certainly wouldn't hear a dance on a fiddle like you would at the Green Dragon. Elves don't really place a lot of stock in instruments, preferring instead to rely on voices with maybe just one low drone in the background for reference. But the point is that once upon a time, they introduced the concept of music to us and we integrated it and evolved it to where it is today."

Sam just sort of blinks at him. "So . . . can we play some Elvish music?"

"Well, the way we compose is a little different, so—"

"Why?" Sam asks, in that tone of voice that never fails to bring flashbacks of a younger Sam, tugging at his pant-leg and asking Frodo _Why?_ about everything under the sun.

For the present though, Frodo doesn't have an answer. "Well. Well, uh, that's just how we do it. Um. For one thing, hobbits aren't in the habit of transcribing Elvish chant, and I doubt if Bilbo has a tambura around—well, actually he very well may . . ."

"Sorry, Mr. Frodo, forget I mentioned it. We don't want you working yourself into a tizzy and ransacking Bag End for a whatsit," Sam smiles. It's comforting to know that someone besides Bilbo knows him so well.

"No, you really do bring up a valid point there, Sam. Rarely do we even consider Elvish music in the study of counterpoint, even though chant and sacred modes and, you know, tetrachords and the different styles of singing genus lay the very foundation for the way we compose today . . ."

"Right. Mr. Frodo, sir, as much as I enjoy hearing you talk, there sure is a fair amount of gibberish coming out of you just now, if you don't mind my saying so." He's amused.

Frodo laughs. "Yes. I do apologize—staying holed up here with an entire library at my disposal has given me this tendency to get a bit carried away, sometimes."

"I don't rightly know what you mean, sir."

"Right. _Right_, well then. I suppose we ought to move on to the actual counterpoint now." Frodo picks up the quill he has balanced on the edge of the piano, scratches out a simple melody over the manuscript paper on the music rack. "There. Now this is merely a melody line, and it needs to be filled out with other voices. There are a number of rules that dictate how we can proceed, and it all starts with a typical chord progression, which also may only be written in a certain way with some cords unable to follow others because it would distort the sound and render it harsh and unpleasant to listen to. Now, one very common progression is I, IV, V, I, and it is our task to distribute all the notes of those cords between four voices in a way that does not contradict the melody, and—"

"Begging your pardon, sir,"—and Sam sounds impatient—"but why is that what has to happen?"

"I. _Well_—"

"I mean, isn't the point of music to sound good? Why are there rules for something so simple?"

"Well that's precisely it, Sam. The rules are what enable the music to sound pleasant and without them how would we know what to do to make it sound a certain way?"

Sam continues: "You'd only have to listen, I suppose, and hear if it sounded good. Wouldn't you?"

It certainly makes sense. "I suppose . . ."

"Who came up with these rules, anyway? Someone could've just written something down or sang a song and felt good about it. Doesn't mean he wrote down a bunch of rules. D'you, see what I mean, sir?"

"Yes. Yes, and to be honest I don't really know how these rules ever came about to begin with. In any case, I've written down some of the basics here,"—and he slides another sheet of paper onto the music rack—"just things like doubling, avoiding parallel fifths and octaves, which intervals are out of place when and which to never use to begin with, voice crossing, that sort of thing—it's all written out here with examples so just take a look at it for later. Right now we ought to move on to scales to give you a good foundation before we start playing for real. It will help you learn how to read music, as well." Frodo lays his hands out over the keys, lets his fingers sink down and play a sonorous cord. "This is where we place our hands to begin this scale, but there will be a lot of finger crossing involved and—Sam, why are you looking at me as though I've lost my mind?"

Sam shifts around on the bench next to him. "It's nothing. Just, can't I try to play something first?" He's really getting restless, and Frodo is such an unmotivated teacher that he relents at the sight of Sam's boredom alone.

"You can certainly try. But promise me you'll practice scales, too. I have a book around here somewhere . . ."

"What's this?" Sam asks, holding up the some sheet music.

"Oh, that's actually something rather new. Rather advanced, I should think, for a beginner especially. Not to mention that it neglects to follow many of the rules I was talking about . . ."

Sam shrugs and places the music on the piano, leaning in to squint at the thick, arpeggiated chords. He glances between his fingers on the keyboard and the music. Points at a spot on the page. "Does that mean the keys are next to each other on the piano?"

"Actually, those two are a third part. Think of every space and every line as—"

"So that note's the one next to the one next to it. Right, sir?"

"Uh. Yes. Really, Sam, we ought to start with something a bit less complicated."

"But don't you like this song, Mr. Frodo?" And Sam's all big eyes and curiosity.

Frodo sighs. "It is very lovely, yes. "

Sam nods, still glancing rapidly between the music on the page and the keys under his fingers. He presses into the keys, letting out what would have been a major chord if not for the elaborate key signature. Instead they are met with clashing dissonance. Sam frowns.

Frodo laughs. "If you had worked on scales and practiced reading music first, it would've sounded like this," he says, repositioning Sam's fingers up to some of the thinner ivory keys, feels him jump a little at the contact. "All right, try now."

Sam does, and the sound is surprisingly soft, not the usual beginner approach of banging the piano artlessly into submission. Sam then arpeggiates up the triad, just like it says to on the page, and Frodo smiles.

"That's really very good. I'm still determined to make you suffer through scales, however, considering that I had to. Here." Frodo hands him a pile of books of studies. "Please feel free to come in and practice whenever you have the time."

Sam shifts around on the bench, reluctant. "I'd like to, Mr. Frodo, I really would, but there's a lot of things as need tending to out in the garden this time of year."

"Oh, there's too many dead plants still covered in snow out there for you to be of much use in the garden, surely."

"Actually, this is a fair important couple of weeks—"

Frodo immediately feels guilty. He waves Sam's concerns away anyway. "Don't feel pressured, Sam. Just stop in on a rainy day or whenever you're finished with your work, all right?"

-----

Sam had been right about the gardening—Frodo doesn't see him again for a week. Not that Frodo needed Sam around all the time, obviously. It was just that he was especially bored with Bilbo off adventuring who knew where, and especially restless with the warmer weather.

Frodo wasn't an idiot. He knew that Sam was getting a bit too old to act like Frodo's friend, no matter that he was the closest thing Frodo had to a friend in Hobbiton. When Sam had been younger it had been noble of Bilbo to invite their servant's child up the Hill for tutoring in various subjects. It had been magnanimous and good and everything else, but now the fact remains that Sam is well into his teens and what began as charity begins to look like friendship.

Under normal circumstances there wasn't anything wrong with friendship, but Sam is still a servant and Frodo is still his employer. A gentlehobbit. Sam's 'better'. Hobbits of every social status would judge, and Sam didn't deserve that.

Of course the worst part of all of this was that Frodo only continued to teach Sam out of loneliness while Sam continued to dutifully supply company because he felt obligated. And frankly, if it didn't end soon the whole Shire would find him as peculiar as they did Bilbo.

Frodo is beginning to wonder if Sam will even touch the piano before their next lesson until one lazy morning when he's awakened by the faint echo of the scales through the hole. He stumbles out of bed and dreaming and down the hall to follow the sound.

And there Sam sits, clothes a little dirtied from working in the garden earlier, face the definition of concentration, body hunched over and moving very slightly with every note. He's going slow, uneven and halting to correct notes here and there. They're all the right corrections, though. Sam has always had a fine voice—it's not much of a surprise that he has a good ear, too.

"Good morning, maestro," Frodo says from the doorway, and Sam jumps and blushes, starts to get up but then freezes and it's all Frodo can do not to laugh. He walks over and sits down on the bench with him.

Sam sucks in a deep breath. "I didn't mean to wake you, sir. I oughtn't've come in so early in the morning, and I'm powerful sorry, and—"

"Oh, honestly—it's almost noon. It's a good thing you _did_ wake me up, you know. And I daresay it is rather nice to wake up to music for a change."

Sam offers a tentative smile and relaxes but for his fidgeting hands.

"Done anything other than scales, yet?" Frodo asks.

"You said not to," Sam says, studying his fingers laid out over the ebony keys.

Frodo laughs. "That doesn't answer my question."

"Well, begging your pardon, sir, but I might've messed about with some other bits of music, too . . ."

"Might've, eh? Well, let's hear it, then."

What Sam plays is admittedly unrefined, fraught with huge pauses on held chords while he figures out what comes next, but the simple beauty of it surprises Frodo into absolute stillness, awaiting the next collection of thirds going down the scale with inexplicably bated breath. The notes are all rather close together, pretty and treble, but there is still such a feeling of openness in the sound, such a ringing harmonious quality, a little sad, and a little hopeful . . .

Frodo realizes belatedly that Sam is looking at him, can't remember exactly when he had stopped playing, only that the music seemed to continue gently on in his head.

"Mr. Frodo?"

"I . . . what is that piece?"

"I don't rightly know. I just pressed on the keys until I liked how it sounded, is all. It's nice enough for me, but I know you must be used to more refined—"

"Oh, not at all. That is, Sam—"

"No, I know, and I'm sorry for not listening to you, sir. And for waking you up—I promise it won't happen again. If, if you're still willing to teach me, that is, what scales should I play for next week?"

"_Forget_ the scales, Sam. I must have something a bit more engaging around here . . ."

-----

The next day, Frodo sits down at the piano with what used to be one of his favorite compositions and dives right in, hoping against hope that he'll remember everything he'd worked out in years past. And it does come back, for the most part, but the way he feels about the piece has apparently changed. What had seemed beautiful in sound and in Frodo's own execution now seems empty. He longs for the kind of unrestricted, natural sound Sam had coaxed from the keys.

Frodo tries to re-create what Sam had done with the music, possible chords and passing tones and dissonances running through his head, but none of them seem to produce the same result. He remembers thin texture and close intervals—stops thinking, plays a simple triad. It sounds too low and muddied at the range Frodo is in so he moves it up an octave, scrunches his hands closer together and fiddles with the doublings until he thinks he's got it—the chord rings out bright and unidentifiable and exactly the way Sam had made it sound.

Frodo continues to doodle over the keys, begins to understand that Sam had been listening to what sounded good and following wherever it lead. He pulls out a sheet of manuscript paper and begins transcribing Sam's theme, gets caught up in its melancholy progression and when he reaches the end he's so struck by how unresolved it is that he forgets about dictation altogether and concentrates instead on completing the melody. Or at least answering it, or at least something . . .

Sam's theme had been slow and meandering and quietly said, so Frodo speeds it up to something more obviously pessimistic, infuses it with thicker, faster chords for contrast. He's speeding and speeding to the top of his little variation, halts on dissonance to savor and hears his fingers began to slow down of their own volition as he tries to find his way back to Sam's theme, closing his eyes and searching for it through the sound and the feeling instead of the theory, all those rules—

"Mr. Frodo?"

Frodo jumps, hands slipping into ugly cluster chords. He looks up and realizes abruptly that his breathing is uneven. "Sam," he states dumbly.

The corner of Sam's mouth turns up. He puts something gardeny looking down on a table and makes his way through the parlor to stand awkwardly by the piano bench, fighting smiles the whole time, which makes it impossible for Frodo not to smile back. "Please, do sit down."

Sam does, notices the chicken scratch Frodo's made of his music on the manuscript paper. "Begging your pardon, sir, but it's a good thing you don't make your living as a scribe." Frodo laughs while Sam squints at the notes and tries to follow their directions. He eventually just gives up and stares down at his hands on the black keys—tanned hands that contrast less than Frodo's do, look more like an extension of the instrument. He launches into his theme from the beginning

Frodo starts to say something but no words come out, closes his mouth and lets himself become entranced while Sam plays. When Sam reaches the end Frodo sneaks one hand under Sam's to take over with his more active variation, racing through it especially quickly with Sam's warm watchful gaze on him, embarrassed to keep sneaking glances at the chords he'd scratched out on the paper for reference when Sam is able to play so effortlessly. Frodo arrives back to where he'd been stuck before, stalling and unable to transition into Sam's original, beautifully stagnant statement.

Without asking or begging his pardon Sam reaches over Frodo's hands to answer Frodo's line, pressing close, fingers slipping through his. He somehow manages to bring them back to his theme, Frodo answering it in a lower octave, Sam's hands urging Frodo's unending chords away and leaving him bare with only a single line to express everything.

Frodo fades out eventually, mesmerized by how easily Sam can expand on both of their ideas. He closes his eyes during the final thrum of Sam's concluding notes, hearing harmonies both real and implied floating away.

"Does it have a name?" Frodo asks, can't think of anything else to say.

Sam had apparently been awfully tense during their duet because when he leans away from the piano it seems that his whole body unwinds. He doesn't look at Frodo—he's been avoiding his eyes more than usual this spring, and Frodo hopes he's not grown tired of him or grown out of him or . . . "Something about moonlight," Sam says decisively, nodding to himself and making Frodo smile.

"So a nocturne, then?" And Sam frowns and looks at him finally and Frodo shouldn't feel so anxious for his approval. "It's what we call a song of the night."

Sam shrugs. "I don't know about 'we', but if you don't mind I'll just give it a name in the language we normally speak."

"Oh, yes. Of course. No, that really does make sense, actually, Sam." Sam's eyes are tending toward green today, which denotes something passionate. That rare vibrant green usually only comes out with talk of Elves late into the night or splendidly cooperative roses in the garden. It makes Frodo even more nervous. "This was inspired by moonlight, then?" Frodo asks, feeling increasingly helpless.

Sam smiles and Frodo smiles back, and when he can't think of anything further to say he just continues smiling, smiling at Sam smiling at him and smiling closer and closer and—

"What are you—?" And Sam's mouth closes over his and it hits Frodo all at once that Sam has matured in more than one way, and what a delicate situation this is now, with his underage, _male_ servant's tongue in his mouth and Frodo with no indication that Sam could even feel this way about _him_. Hasn't any idea what to do so he just lets himself be kissed and gets caught up in the feeling despite himself.

Sam shifts closer on the bench, warm strong hand on Frodo's lower back sliding him closer as well, bodies touching now as Sam's fingers travel into his hair, kiss deepening, Frodo feeling feverish . . .

"I," Frodo manages between kisses. "_Mmmf_. Inappropriate. Age. Societal norms."

"Bad idea," Sam agrees, goes back to kissing him.

Frodo can't help wondering if Sam has done this before—he's certainly confident and he's certainly proving to be quite adept at erasing every logical thought in Frodo's head with his mouth alone. Frodo lets out a groan and clutches at Sam's arms for support, head spinning with his strength and taste and the sudden onslaught of movement as Sam pulls him to his feet.

They stumble haphazardly through Bag End, mouths sliding and hands grappling, and Frodo's _thoroughly_ overwhelmed—Sam's insistent mouth, the heat of his body, the hand on his arm leading him who knows where, the fingers twisting in his hair to keep him still for kissing—that it barely registers where exactly they are. For all Frodo knows they could be in the middle of Bywaterwith its bustling markets and bustling people and cool water and cheery sunlight all in attendance. Frodo's heart thumps against his chest like it's trying to escape and save itself given how terribly far gone the rest of him is. Frodo can't think anything past _heat_ and _more_ and _yes_ . . .

Something clatters to the floor when Frodo falls back against a wall with Sam surrounding him, limbs skin clothes hot wet, and Frodo peels his eyes open to see what it was: some useless trinket or heirloom or what have you but it still brings reality crashing back. Frodo pushes Sam and his compelling eagerness back a good couple of feet.

"I don't think you understand just how bad of an idea this is, Sam," Frodo says, totally unconvincing given his breathy voice.

Sam is panting and blinking at him. Frodo can't stop glancing at his mouth.

"Sam," he tries again. "You aren't an idiot—there are so many things that _cannot_ happen that are _happening_, here. Sam."

Sam still doesn't react, doesn't close in on himself and turn apologetic, doesn't fight back either, just continues to fix that unbearably adoring expression on Frodo and Frodo feels his resolve beginning to crumble again already.

"Sam." Frodo tries to communicate regret and authority in this tone, but unfortunately he feels neither.

"I know," Sam says finally. "But how do you feel?" Green, devoted eyes boring into him.

Frodo hasn't the slightest clue about his own feelings and is frankly rather frightened by how strongly he's been reacting to Sam lately. "Please don't be angry with me, but you really must go now."

So Sam goes, and he doesn't seem angry in the least. And that drives Frodo slightly insane.

-----

It's easier to think clearly without Sam around, and his absence gives Frodo some much needed time for reflection. He simply has to ignore every rustle of leaves outside the window, every muffled whistled tune from the path around the hole.

Frodo thinks about what he has with Sam, thinks about how much of it is Sam's own feelings and how much of it genuinely comes from Frodo himself, thinks about all the room for misinterpretation. Thinks about his tendency to humor Sam.

In Frodo's world, when hobbits of the same gender take a fancy to one another in . . . an _indecent_ vein, it is never spoken of. People turn a blind eye and know very well that it's happening but never utter a word about it. It happens, and not infrequently, but it simply isn't talked about.

Sam's world is different. It is talked about there, and with vehemence and disgust and, most importantly, with accompanying actions. Penalty. It is not enough to simply ignore such things in Sam's world—lessons have to be taught and values reinstated.

If Sam really felt this way about Frodo, it was hard to say how the situation would be dealt with—conscious ignorance or conscious harassment? Which tier of society would be left to judge them? What were the worst possible ramifications?

Shunning. Disappointment. Hate.

At least both sides would agree on those in the face of their perfect worlds being tainted by unwelcome outsiders. Sam can't make small talk with the Thain like Frodo can, and Frodo knows very well that idle conversations at the Green Dragon are respectfully censored in his presence.

Frodo isn't as relieved as he thought he'd be in finding a middle ground.

-----

It's time for their next lesson, and Frodo spends most of the day wondering whether or not Sam will come, overdosing on tea and re-alphabetizing the library to keep his mind off of subjects he shouldn't even be contemplating in the first place. He ends up becoming so engrossed in his task that he doesn't notice Sam padding gingerly around the mess of maps and manuscripts strewn across the floor, and it startles him when he feels a tentative hand on his shoulder.

Frodo whips his head around, stares up into Sam's eyes, softly brown and back to normal. "I didn't hear you come in," he says stupidly.

"That much I gathered, sir," he smiles, so at ease, and Frodo begins to wonder if he'd imagined everything that had transpired before. "What, er, happened in here?"

"Oh. The mess. Right, well, just a bit of spring cleaning, that sort of thing." Sam raises his eyebrows, doesn't look so convinced. Frodo pulls himself to his feet in the meantime.

And they stay like that for a while, Frodo biting his tongue and Sam looking hopeful.

"I've been practicing that song you gave me to look at . . ." Sam begins.

"Oh, have you?" Frodo needs to say something more—he's the adult here, for goodness sake.

More silence. "Would you, ah, be wanting to hear it, sir, or—?"

"Maybe it's time to stop having lessons," Frodo blurts, recoils at the instantly dejected expression on Sam's face. Pushes on: "You're not a child anymore, Sam, and there isn't much more I can teach you. Nothing really _useful_ to you, anyway." It makes sense—_so much sense_, but for some reason the more sense his decisions are making the worse he feels.

Sam recovers, hides his distress valiantly. "Is it really that you're of no more use to me? Or am I just of no more use to you?" he asks, eyes changing. ". . . Sir," he adds, manages to sound defiant and contrite at once.

Frodo sighs. "Sam, please believe me, I enjoy spending time with you, but we have so little in common anymore—"

"Mr. Frodo. Sir. I know you don't believe that, not one bit." Stares, stares, stares at him. "You're an awful bad liar," he confides.

Frodo evades Sam's eyes. "All right, do you want the truth? I hate to have to be the one to tell you this, Sam, but you're my servant, and as such you are required to do what I say and not continue to force me into being your friend—"

"No. You have it all wrong. I _know_ you—I know you don't mean any of this." Most would label Sam's behavior stubbornness, and maybe it is, but Frodo knows that Sam's stubbornness always has a good reason behind it.

Frodo deflates. Sam can see him all too well. "This isn't allowed, Sam, and that's all there is to it. Please don't make it harder than it is."

"You aren't _listening_," Sam insists.

"Please, Sam—you know I'm right . . ."

"Never said you weren't right, sir," Sam says, leaves.

-----

Frodo doesn't expect to see Sam again for awhile. At least not until Bilbo's returned and ushered him inside to regale him with predominately fabricated tales from his journey. And so he's surprised to realize that the chiming piano music permeating his dream is in fact coming from the parlor.

Frodo moves silently through the hole, emotions vying for recognition—annoyance, worry, ruefulness—but all of them effectively drowned out by the sweet, listless calm of the music. He can hear Sam attempting to re-create Frodo's additions to his theme, always retreating to linger on the most beautifully ringing pitches, hanging onto dissonance and holding out resolutions for eons of nourishing overtone.

Frodo watches him from the doorway, and it all feels so much like déjà vu that he believes he may still be asleep.

"What is that, anyway?" he asks softly.

Sam takes a deep breath, addresses the piano: "You make everything so complicated, Mr. Frodo. I'm sorry, but there it is—you always have to make things more complicated than they are. Take music. I know that there's a certain way you're _supposed_ to write songs and make them turn out the right way. I know there's more rules than I can fair keep track of. But music isn't about doing things the right way, sir, not really. It's about sounding good and sounding beautiful, and I believe that, truly, no matter how many rules I'm breaking by believing it."

Frodo clears his throat. "So . . . the right way isn't always the good way. That's what you're saying, isn't it Sam?"

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Frodo, but that it is."

"Sam—"

"How I feel."

"I . . . pardon?"

"This?" And Sam plays the sweet little theme again over the keys. "It's how I feel, is all."

"Oh." Frodo studies the floor, can see Sam standing and approaching out of the corner of his eye and tries very hard not to fidget. "I'm too much older," Frodo points out.

"Mm."

"I don't sew my own clothing. I will one day inherit actual treasure."

"Mm."

"I'm . . . I'm not Rosie Cotton."

Sam laughs. "Definitely not, sir."

Frodo sighs. "Sam. Is there any possibility that you could call me by my _name_? For once?"

"Oh, definitely yes, Frodo," Sam says, close, voice echoing around him before they kiss.

-----


End file.
